


I Feel A Little Rush

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Caring Illya, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their last mission, successful as it was, had left both Illya and Napoleon badly battered and bruised. </p><p>---</p><p>The one where the boys take care of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Feel A Little Rush

When Gaby walks into their hotel suite’s main room, she sees Napoleon on the couch, head leaned back against the cushions with his eyes closed looking terribly exhausted. Their last mission, successful as it was, had left both Illya and him badly battered and bruised.

“You okay?” she says to him and Napoleon turns his head at the sound of her voice.

“How’s Illya?”

From where she is standing, Gaby glances at Illya’s sleeping form. 

After returning from their mission, they had dragged him to Napoleon’s room which was nearest from the suite’s main door. Napoleon had simply ignored Illya’s protests as he dumped him bodily on the bed, telling him to shut it because the Russian’s head was injured and his arguments were invalid. He had later left Illya for Gaby to handle alone, and that had somehow irritated Illya even more. He had continued to grumble, saying they were fussing over him for nothing. Gaby, however, was having none of his tantrums and to her relief, Illya quickly succumbed to the medication he had taken, falling fast asleep in a matter of minutes. And now some sleeping rearrangements would have to be made.

“He’s asleep on your bed. I guess you’ll be switching rooms now. Unless, you want to share it with him? Because that’s a mighty big bed.”

At any other time, that remark would have gotten her a cheeky reply or some form of teasing from Napoleon which would no doubt make Illya’s cheeks flush if he were there to hear it, but this time around, all Gaby gets is barely a hum. 

“Solo?” Gaby calls him. “Did you hear what I’d said?”

Napoleon hums again, albeit a little bit louder. “Yes, I did. Don’t worry about me. You sure he’ll be okay?”

Gaby frowns. Despite himself, Napoleon is still obviously worrying about Illya. 

“He’ll be fine, Solo. Don’t worry,” Gaby appeases him. “I’m just glad he’s not concussed or anything more serious than that. I’d hate to mother an overly injured Illya. You know how he hates us mothering him.”

“But of course, he’s the Russian Red Peril.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Apparently Napoleon’s attempt at deflecting Gaby’s earlier concern has not worked. “Solo?”

“Just a couple of sore bruises here and there but I’ll live,” Napoleon finally answers as he tries to avert Gaby’s scrutiny.

“That man stomped on your shoulder,” Gaby argues, still not wanting to relent.

The frown on her face indicates her worry. She knows Napoleon well enough that he is just as bad as Illya when it comes to hiding his injuries. She had seen how the big burly man had crowded on Napoleon and when his boot had connected with Napoleon’s shoulder with a crunch, the cry from the American had been a clear indication of how much it must have hurt him.

“Solo, are you sure you don’t need a doctor for that? Or let me take a look at it, at least?” she asks him again. The grimace on his face when he tries to lift his arm tells Gaby that it is probably hurting him more than he is letting on.

But Napoleon only dismisses Gaby again with a little shake of his head.

“I’ll be fine, Gaby,” Napoleon reassures her. “You should get some rest yourself.”

Gaby suddenly wishes Illya is awake. He is the only person that can persuade or dissuade the American from anything, and just thinking about how they had started out in the first place, a soft smile formed on her lips. From absolute distrust to something she can’t really describe with words, she wonders if the boys are aware of how their dynamics have completely changed.

“I’m going to ask you again, are you sure about your shoulder?”

Napoleon lets out a loud groan at Gaby’s persistence. “I’m really okay, mom.”

“Okay, whatever you say, mister, but don’t complain about it tomorrow,” she warns, a little frustrated knowing she has failed to get through Napoleon’s stubbornness.

“I won’t.”

Wordlessly, Gaby starts to pad across towards her own bedroom but stops when she notices Napoleon is holding Illya’s watch.

“It’s broken. Must have happened when that man threw him against the wall,” Napoleon says without looking at Gaby.

She comes up behind Napoleon on the couch and the sight of Illya’s watch in Napoleon’s hand, glass cracked and the hands all crooked and bent, tells her the real reason why the Russian had been so enraged, had almost snapped his assailant’s neck. If it had not been for Napoleon, Illya would have probably killed the man. And if it had not been for her, Illya would have probably not gotten his head smashed against the wall.

“You distracted him,” Napoleon says, turns his head to face a solemn looking Gaby. “But it wasn’t your fault. Peril knows that.”

“That is highly debatable,” Gaby sighs. “I really shouldn’t be in the field with you both if I’m going to be another distraction. You boys are probably the worst kind of distraction for the other as it already is.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at Gaby’s very suspicious comment. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing at all,” Gaby shrugs and then yawns, feigning sleepiness. “I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow morning.”

Before Napoleon could say anything else, Gaby quickly disappears into her own room, leaving him a little perplexed. Ignoring what he thinks Gaby is trying to imply, he immediately turns his attention on the broken watch in his hand, remembers the last time he had it in his possession. Yes, it was way back then in Rome. To be honest, there had been a couple of times after Rome that Napoleon had stolen Illya’s watch just to agitate the Russian, and the disgruntled look on his face each and every time he found it missing never failed to amuse Napoleon. He smiles fondly at the thought and decides he would give Illya a nice surprise when he wakes up the following morning.

When Illya does wake up, however, it is during the middle of the night. He groans, feels the room spin a little as he sits at the edge of the bed. His body hurts and the dull throb in his head reminded him of what had happened earlier when they were trying to escape Eriksson’s men with the blueprint UNCLE needed. The scuffle they encountered with his goons had been brutal. Illya had been bested by a big man, a very big man who had thrown him against a brick wall when he had tried to stop him from injuring his American partner. It’s not usual for Illya to get beat up like that. If that man could easily do it to him, it would have been worse for Napoleon if he had not intervened it from happening.

Speaking of Napoleon, Illya wonders where his partner was. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was Napoleon’s exaggerated comment about how he had to carry him all the way from the car to his room when his legs had failed on him, and Gaby insisting he had needed rest.

Not wanting to dwell on his thoughts any longer, Illya gets up slowly from the bed. There is a faint light coming from the main room of the suite so he shuffles outside and his heart clenches, a feeling of warmth spreading all over him at what he sees. 

Napoleon is asleep on the couch with the coffee table pulled right up next to him and on it is his father’s watch, almost disassembled. The straps and broken glass are laid out at one corner of the table, the main circular face of the watch with screws and little instruments; tweezers, a screwdriver and a small piece of cloth, are lined up next to it.

Napoleon is obviously trying to fix his watch. Illya sighs. Only the American could do this; crawl under his skin, frustrates him to no end and yet, at the same time, could tug at his heartstrings as well.

“Cowboy.”

Napoleon stirs at the voice, lets out a low moan. Illya calls out to him again and then he blinks a couple of times and tries to make out the tall silhouette standing at the foot of the couch. “Peril?”

“What are you doing?”

Illya is staring down at him with arms folded across his chest.

“Hey, you’re awake. How’s your head? How are you feeling?” Napoleon asks.

“Feeling okay. Does not hurt much. What about you?”

Napoleon does not answer straightaway. He pulls himself up to a sitting position but when he straightens himself on the couch, a pained expression contorts on his face and Illya is quick to notice it.

“Your shoulder is injured. Yet you helped me up the stairs, into the room.”

“It’s fine, I’d used my good right shoulder on you. But seriously it’s nothing. It doesn’t really hurt,” Napoleon dismisses his concern. To prove himself, he jostles it but winces in pain instead. Illya is immediately next to him.

“You do not seem fine.”

“It’s nothing bad, Peril.”

“Stubborn American.”

Napoleon quirks his lips at Illya’s frustrated tone. “Now _that_ hurts.”

Illya only scoffs. A second after that he turns to his partner, his eyes softening somewhat. “Why do you do this?”

“What?”

Illya gestures at Napoleon’s handy work on the table. “That.”

“Oh that,” Napoleon smirks. “I’ve got a good explanation for that.”

“This watch, is not important to you. You didn’t have to, Cowboy,” Illya mutters.

“It’s fine. Besides, I have all the tools and instruments to fix it, figured why not have a go.”

“You traded your sleep for this?”

“You make it sound like I’d done something terrible. I was just trying to fix your watch for you but I fell asleep halfway through it,” Napoleon admits sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

Illya shakes his head. “It’s not necessary, Cowboy. I can get it fixed tomorrow.”

“Well, you were clearly upset when you saw it broken. Thought it’d be a nice surprise for you when you see it all shiny and new when you get up. I didn’t expect you to wake up in the middle of the night, though.”

Then Napoleon was talking, his mouth moving, explaining himself, but everything seems to have faded into the background, his sound and speech blurred from Illya’s hearing and Illya cannot help himself from what he does next. He pulls Napoleon nearer, his fingers almost fisting his collar. The American’s blue eyes widen, a little shock at Illya’s boldness, a little surprised at whatever it is Illya is about to do.

“Peril, what? Did I say something wrong?”

Napoleon has got the most mesmerising blue eyes, Illya thinks, the little brown spot on his left eye a plus feature that always somehow distracts him whenever he looks at Napoleon. And his thick dark hair is luscious, sometimes Illya feels like running his fingers through it whenever it falls forward into his eyes. It always happens when Cowboy doesn’t use any product in it and Illya secretly loves that messy, scruffy look. And then with mouths inches away, Illya never realises how delectable Napoleon’s lips are, and from that angle and distance he sees it, the skin so cherry red and tempting. He wants to thumb at it slowly, he wants to bite on his lower lip, he wants to kiss it. But will he ruin whatever it is between them if he gives in to temptation? To his want? Maybe the bump on his head has really screwed with his brain. Or maybe, it has knocked some sense into him, telling him what he really wants all this while has been right there in front of him all along. Illya is suddenly questioning his sanity.

“Peril?”

Illya snaps out of his stupor and sees his partner blinking at him with a curious look. “Are you with me?” Napoleon asks and Illya nods. He feels a little embarrassed because he had been caught studying the American so openly, or maybe, Napoleon had not really realised what he had been doing. 

“Why do you care so much about my watch?” Illya murmurs lowly, the question coming out of the blue.

Napoleon is still in shock, a little intrigued now at Illya’s behaviour, their closeness sending his senses reeling. He cannot help but let his eyes wander, takes a glimpse of Illya’s lips as well, so very close to his. He swallows.

“Solo.”

Illya’s serious voice pulls him out of his reverie. “My question. Why do you care so much about it?”

He lets go of Napoleon’s shirt and the American is surprised that he feels disappointment at the loss of contact between them. Again he is letting his thoughts wander dangerously. Seeing Illya’s eyes narrow further, Napoleon quickly tries to address the matter at hand.

“Look, Peril, I—I don’t care about the watch,” he starts and then Illya’s rather disheartened look makes him backtrack a little. “I mean I care about it because it is yours.”

“What? You care about it or do you not? You are very confusing man.”

“No, what I mean is I hate to see you get upset because it is your father’s watch, and it’s broken, and that thing matters to you and I guess, to see you upset will upset me as well.”

“You. Are upset?”

“Did I make any sense at all to you just now?” Napoleon asks with a sheepish grin.

“Maybe.”

Napoleon tries explaining himself again.

“Knowing what that watch means to you, I thought I’d do something nice. But I’ll ask your permission the next time I touch your watch, Peril.”

“That does not upset me, you touching my watch. I know you only mean well.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Well, then you look kind of upset. What’s the matter?”

Illya looks away at once. “Nothing, Cowboy.”

“Come on, tell me. I’m your friend, aren’t I?”

Illya is really lost for words. Of course, they are friends. But he knows now that he feels more than what a friend should really feel for one. What he really wants is to anchor Napoleon down, kiss him and immerse himself in his hold, in his arms, tells him that nothing and no one else in the world is more important than him, not even his father’s watch. He would rather lose it than Napoleon, and his heart hurts to think of it, he could not bear it if he were to lose him, he never ever wants it to happen. The need to always protect him is becoming too prevalent nowadays for Illya and he knows he can’t, knows that is impossible. Illya wishes sometimes that he could shield him from every hurt, and today he has failed him. Overwhelmed with feelings, Illya surges forward and kisses Napoleon, catches his lips with his, bites down on it, fingers tangled in his dark hair and Napoleon, stunned at first, reciprocates after half a heartbeat, arms going around Illya’s shoulders as Illya backs him against the arm of the couch.

“What’s that for?” Napoleon says breathlessly after he breaks the kiss when the need for oxygen overtakes him. Illya’s forehead is leaning on his, breaths coming in short gasps.

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it,” Illya murmurs.

The rush in Napoleon’s body will not subside anytime soon and Illya’s stare, the way he is looking at him at the moment, is not helping Napoleon’s cause at all. He wonders if Illya is really attracted to him, or whether it’s just the heat of the moment. People tend to make mistakes, make irrational decisions when their brains are not thinking clearly and Napoleon fears this. He does not want Illya to regret it later. His friendship means more to him than anything else.

He puts a hand in between their bodies. “Illya, maybe we shouldn’t.”

For a moment there is a flash of hurt in Illya’s eyes and Napoleon instantly feels bad. He wants to say he is sorry but Illya silences him with another kiss, this time with more passion and urgency and Napoleon knows at once he cannot say no to Illya. 

When they break away from each other for the second time, Illya asks, “You still doubt this?” and Napoleon only shakes his head. Relieved, Illya leans down and kisses his cheek before ducking his head, settles it at the crook of Napoleon’s neck. But when he fully leans his body on top of the American, a pained cry escapes Napoleon and Illya pulls back in an instant, a worried look on his face at once. His hand immediately goes to his partner's injured left shoulder.

“It’s hurting you, yes?”

Napoleon finally admits defeat, because as much as he hates to say it, it had really hurt that time. “Yes, it does, a little.”

Illya starts to move away but Napoleon grabs his arm, pulls him back towards him. “No, don’t go. I’d lied, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

“No, Cowboy. Come, let me take a look at it. Sit.”

Napoleon groans, knows he cannot fight him when he has his eyes narrowed on him like that. Then, just like a petulant child, Napoleon begrudgingly sits up and after unbuttoning his shirt, he slides the garment off for Illya to check on his injury.

“I still think this is unnecessary,” Napoleon tries to argue. Illya’s reaction to that is a little growl of disapproval.

“Don’t talk. Turn around,” Illya orders instead and Napoleon has no choice but to do as he is told with his back now facing Illya.

“It’s badly bruised, Cowboy.”

Napoleon could hear the sheer anger in Illya’s voice. Before he could say anything, the Russian’s fingers are already skimming on Napoleon’s bruised shoulder with amazing care, checking his injury by running them gently along his shoulder blade and then back up until they reach the nape of his neck. Without realising what he is doing, Napoleon tilts his head to give Illya access, bites back a strangled moan from escaping his throat at Illya’s deft touches.

“It’ll get better in a day or two,” Napoleon says after managing to make his vocal chords work after a while, hopes the quiver in his voice had gone unnoticed, but then his eyes widen when he feels the Russian nuzzling his ear.

“Peril?” he croaks.

“I make you feel better.”

When Illya’s lips descend on his injured shoulder, the contact is almost electric. Napoleon cannot help but lean back against Illya as the Russian glides his fingers and lips, the touch making him forget the pain. Napoleon wants to ask what exactly is going on, because damn, his nervous system is going haywire at the moment. Who would have thought Illya could be this tender? This gentle? His mouth and hands are warm on his skin and Napoleon barely breathes.

“Illya,” he moans and Illya’s right arm slides around his shoulders, securing him close. He feels Illya’s lips mouthing against his neck.

“Feel better?” Illya questions.

Napoleon only hums. When Illya’s feather light kisses rain on his neck and jawline and then downwards on his shoulder again, soothing and igniting something in Napoleon he has probably kept inside for too long, Napoleon only lets it happen. His eyes are closed, his lips part like he wants to plead for mercy from Illya. It is like torture and bliss all at the same time. But he thinks this is something he has to be grateful for. He figures what had happened today is like an eye opener for the both of them, and he feels he owes it again to Illya’s father’s watch. The last time it had saved his life. This time around, it had somehow helped him take their friendship to another level. Damn, Napoleon has to make sure Illya never loses that watch, for now it holds as much significance for Napoleon as well. And Illya too has to know this, surely he must know.

Illya’s fingers are braced against his hip, mouth claiming Napoleon’s again as he twists his head to submit to Illya’s kisses and what now between them feels natural, just like a second conscience to Napoleon. He tells himself that this is a clear indication of what he wants, that they are meant to be like this from the start, never meant to be just friends. Illya’s fingers gripping and digging into his skin, holding onto him like his life depended on it will form new bruises, but Napoleon will want it, because it will be his reminder that Illya is his and no one will be able to take him away from Napoleon.

 

***

 

“Good morning.”

Gaby’s smile as Illya looks up at her must have been the widest he has ever seen before. She stands there in front of him, hair a little messy from sleep, her fringe falling all over her forehead, and she may have tried reserving her comments at the sight that greeted her when she saw them; Illya sitting crossed legged on the carpeted floor, face concentrated while fiddling with his broken watch, and Napoleon seemingly sound asleep beside him on the couch, his cheek pressed against the cushions with one hand splayed down over Illya’s lap. The sight is strangely heartwarming to say the least. And her smile just tells Illya everything she isn’t saying.

“How’s your head, Illya? Feeling better?” she asks him instead as she moves to sit next to him.

“Much better,” Illya answers with a soft smile. “Thank you for helping me last night.”

Illya’s hands have stopped working on his watch. He eyes Gaby whose fingers are now threading his hair, finds the bump that still persists at the back of his head. “This will get better.”

Illya nods. “Yes, it will.”

“Unfortunately, I did not have much luck convincing a stubborn Solo to let me check on his shoulder,” Gaby grumbles next. “You think he’ll be all right?”

Illya glances at Napoleon who is still sleeping, fights a strong urge to lean over and kiss him awake. He thinks about last night and smiles. “He will be all right.”

In fact, they both will.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, but another gross mushy story for you. :P


End file.
